


Zero

by jaxington



Series: Twenty-One [3]
Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dystopia, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-28
Updated: 2016-01-22
Packaged: 2018-04-23 19:53:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,794
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4889974
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jaxington/pseuds/jaxington
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Now comes the hard part," said Mickey when there were no more prisoners and no more guards in The Farmland, just people.  </p><p>And he was right.</p><p>Dystopia AU</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

He stays still in bed for a long time after his parents’ raised voices wake him up.

Squeezing his eyes shut, he tries to count sheep like Mama taught him. It doesn't help. He isn't sleepy and even when he does manage to relax, the sound of fighting rains down on him from upstairs every few minutes, making his heart beat too fast.

More than anything he wants to sneak out of bed and across the hall, crawling under the blankets with Nika and pretending they don't hear anything loud and scary and mean. Nika's gotta be up, too. Nika's always up when their parents’ fight.

But he's twelve, now. Too old to hide under his big sister's blankets. Just last week Father told him it was time to be a man now, time to learn how to shoot a gun after school instead of following Mama around in the garden.

There’s another shout from upstairs, and he pulls back the covers, giving up and deciding to flee to the safety of Nika's bed. Before he can even get up, his door swings slowly open. He sits up quickly, watching as Nika storms into the room.

She's got the baby in her arms. Raisa’s only three and usually sleeps through everything, but now her eyes are wet, his cheeks red. She whimpers and presses her forehead into Nika's neck.

"She came to my room when they really got going," says Nika. She doesn't keep her voice quite, doesn't care that Father could hear and they’re supposed to be sleeping. His big sister’s brave. "Where were you?"

"Didn't even think about it," he replies, his voice wavering. "Not scared. Don't care."

Nika rolls her eyes, hard, and crosses the room, poking at him until he scoots over and makes room for his two sisters in his bed.

Nika leans back against the headboard, listening intently, as if she can makes sense of the indistinct yelling coming down from upstairs in the library, right above his room. Raisa lies between them, curled up on her belly with her thumb in her mouth. He rubs circles on her back until her eyes flicker close and she falls asleep.

"This is bad, Yevgeny."

"They always fight," he insists.

"Not like this. Every night for a week! Something wrong."

"They just hate each other. Nothing new."

Nika rolls her eyes again and for a few seconds she is still and quiet, until she abruptly hops out of bed, bright blonde hair whirling around her head as she spins to glare at him.

"Well _I'm_ going to find out what's wrong."

She’s out of the room and down the hall before he can even beg her not to leave, not to make more trouble. He scrambles after her, tugging on her hand and trying to get her to come back, trying to remind her what Father will do if he finds them out of bed and snooping,

"Fuck Father," hisses his sister.

"Nika!" He looks over his shoulder, sure that Father’s lurking there somewhere, listening.

"Come on."

And then they’re up the spiraling, iron staircase and approaching the library where their parents’ words are finally becoming clear.

Nika brings them to a stop outside the not quite closed library door, careful to lurk in the shadows of the darkened hall. If Father catches them, Yevgeny knows he’ll cower and try not to cry, and Nika will stand in front of him, taking all the blame, her chin held high and stubborn and brave.

Nika holds his hand tighter and presses a finger to her pursed lips, reminding him to be silent as if he could possibly forget.

Father’s speaking, low and quiet, even though Yevgeny’s positive it was his voice, booming down through the ceiling, waking him up.

It’s Mama yelling now, screaming even, and behind mostly closed doors they can hear her storming around, knocking books off shelves and kicking chairs.

“Wanna know what’s coming,” Nika always says when she drags him out of bed to eavesdrop on their parents’ fighting.

But this sounds worse than it’s ever sounded before and he’d rather not know. He can hear the panic in Mama’s voice and it makes his heart beat fast, teeth sinking into the side of his mouth to keep quiet.

“You are murderer!” shrieks Mama.

His eyes go wide and Nika squeaks in surprise, covering her mouth with her free hand, squeezing Yevgeny’s tighter with her other. They should leave, crawl back into bed and pretend they never went sneaking around, but he’s frozen in place.

“Enough, Svetlana.”

“You are murderer,” says Mama. He’s nearly certain that she’s crying. Mama never cries.

“Not murder,” says Father and as Mama’s hysteria grows he becomes calmer, more detached and cool. “The thing poisoning your womb’s deformed. It’s no child and the procedure will simply remove the unfortunate mass of cells that failed to grow into an adequate human. Keeping the thing would do a disservice to the population, make us weaker.”

“This is child,” says Mama through her tears. “Your child, Vlad. My child! She has heartbeat and fingernails and toes. I carry her for half of year. She is child and just because she—“

“It’s an inferior specimen that’ll be removed at your appointment next week. If you insist on continuing to discuss it then I’ll make you regret it.”

There a thud, and then Father grunting, as if he’s been hit with something. Glass shatters and then the door’s flung open. Nika scrambles back, pulling Yevgeny with her until they are both pressed back into opposite wall.

Mama stands before them, filling up the doorway. Tears stream down her face and both arms wrap around her bulging belly. Light steams into the hallway behind her and Mama seems to glow, her brown hair wild around her head.

Yevgeny doesn’t know when he started crying too.

She glances behind her and then rushes into the hallway, making sure to pull the door shut behind her. Wrapping arms around his shoulders and Nika’s, she rushes them all downstairs.

Mama locks them all away in Yevgeny’s room. They sleep on Yevgeny’s bed. Mama sings softly until Nika’s asleep and he’s almost asleep.

“Four little angles,” Mama says and he thinks it might be a dream. “And I get you out. All four of you.”

* * *

 

“What will you do, Yevgeny?” Mama asks as they stand shoulder to shoulder at the sink over the dishes, Mama washing and Yevgeny drying. “You know?”

“Yes.”

Through the window Yevgeny watches Father and Nika, both looking at a tablet as they sit on the back deck. Only fourteen, and already Father is searching for the perfect partner for Nika to create perfect kids with. He’s not gonna get the chance to sell her off.

“Tell me,” Mama whispers.

“Go to sleep. Wait until two in the morning, after Father is asleep. Sneak out of through the mud room and meet you behind the green house.”

“Good. You must stay quiet, Yevgeny. You must not speak.”

She whispers that again when she tucks him into bed that night. He does not sleep and when he follows her instruction at two o’clock in the morning, chanting her words in his head – _Stay quiet, Yevgeny. Do not speak_ – he turns a corner and runs right into Father.

And when Father yells at him, hits him, demands to know what happened to Mama and Nika and Raisa and the new baby still safe in Mama’s belly, Yevgeny stays quiet and does not speak.

* * *

 

There’s a light flickering in the hallway and it makes staring at the door uncomfortable. Yev blinks, rubs his eyes, and goes back to staring.

This bedroom door used to be his bedroom door. Until he was sixteen and insisted on moving into the bunkroom in some weird show of independence, he lived in the space that was once Mickey and Vee's closets.

He doesn't have fond memories of closets in general, but the former closet didn't feel like a closet; it felt like his room.

Mickey put in big lights and tore out the blinds from the small widow at the very top of the wall. Shelia helped him stitch together his own blanket from leftover scraps from the bright clothes for Chicago. Vee taught him how to dry and press flowers, helped him fix them to the walls of his room to add even more color.

He bites his lip, stares at the door through the flickering light in the hallway, and seriously regrets turning down Mandy's offer to smoke up on the roof.

For years he would follow Mickey through this door at bedtime. Mickey would ruffle his hair, mutter _sleep tight, kid_ , and Yev would go into his own room that was formerly two closets, safe with the knowledge that Mickey was just in the other room, Vee just on the other side of the wall.

And now Yev can't even bring himself to slide this familiar door open, to peak into this familiar room.

Everyone's told him since yesterday that Mickey's fine. He's been up and grumpy and ordering people around. He's not doped up and out of it. He's not on the brink of death like he was when they flew him back from Three yesterday.

And, okay, so maybe Yev never actually saw him on the brink of death and they didn't actually fly him back to Eighteen until he was stable enough to travel, but when Yev got a glimpse of him being wheeled off the hovercraft it looked pretty fucking bad.

The brink of death part came before that, when Mickey was bleeding all over the place at Three and no one knew how to make it stop. And for a minute it looked like Mickey would go right on bleeding despite all the cloths they used to try and stop it, would go right on bleeding until his heart stopped.

It was some random prisoner who saved him, just some woman who used to be a surgeon before she was a prisoner. She pulled the bullets out, stitched him up, started pumping blood into him.

_Mickey didn't die. Mickey didn't die. Mickey didn't die._

Yev's been repeating the mantra in his head for a week, since the hovercraft didn't come back on time and Shelia started whispering with Lip over a tablet, their faces pinched and eyes terrified.

No one wanted to give Yev the details, but Lip spilled without much pressure. He's the only one around here who doesn't look at Yev and a see shaking, silent, traumatized twelve year old.

Mickey's not dead, but when they finally brought him home yesterday, he looked close.

Lip said it was the drugs. They gave him a shit ton of drugs to make the flight more bearable. Some people at Three didn't want Mickey to be moved at all, but of course he threw a fit and came home against doc's orders.

When they finally landed, Mickey's eyes were unfocused and he didn't seem to know Yev's name, didn't seem to know it was Ian holding his hand, and Lip says that was just the pain killer. Lip says today he's fine and not doped up, but Yev still can't slide open this fucking door.

He's a coward, unwilling and unable to face the possibility of seeing Mickey so fucking hurt.

They shot him. They shot Mickey and Yev absolutely, totally, completely, cannot handle it.

"Dude."

Yev jumps approximately three feet in the air and barely resists clutching at his hammering heart when Lip appears at his side.

“Dude,” says Lip again, groaning, clearly unimpressed. “Just go in. He’s fine.”

“Know he’s fine.”

“Then what’s the problem?”

“What if he’s not fine, Lip?” Yev whispers feeling stupid and young.

“He _is_ ,” Lip insists. “He is, Yev. Just go in. He’s been asking for you since before breakfast.”

And it’s nearly lunch now. Yev’s stomach bubbles with guilt.

“But—“ He can’t continue in the face of Lip’s completely unimpressed, totally irritated, highly judgmental frowning.

Lip’s stare down proves to be the extra push he needs, and Yev slides the familiar door open, holding his breath in anticipation of what he'll see inside.

The scene is shockingly normal. Mickey's sitting up in bed, his leg elevated and the bandaged wounds smattering the outside of this thigh hidden by a clean white sheet. His chest is bare. He's got a tablet in his lap. On the far side of the bed sleeps Ian, his arm thrown around Mickey's waist. He's curled close, looking old and exhausted even as he sleeps. Mickey's free hand rests on his shoulder.

"Hey," says Mickey, looking chagrined when he catches sight of Yev loitering in the doorway. His eyes are clear. His speech’s not slurred. There’s no blood seeping through his bandages. He looks at Yev like he knows him, recognizes him. He looks fine, as fine as anyone could look after taking a whole slew of bullets to the leg, and Yev can breathe again.

Knees shaking, he leans back against the closed door, trying to collect himself.

"Hey," says Mickey again, tone more soothing now. He says _hey_ like he's means _sorry_. Like he's responsible for Yev's sudden inability to stand on his own. "I'm okay, Yevgeny. We're okay. Come here."

Somehow he manages to follow Mickey's instructions and he grabs a chair on his way, falling into it when he gets to the bedside.

"You look like shit, bean sprout."

Yev lets out a strangled laugh. "That's my line."

Mickey cracks a smile. "Yeah, well I did get shot. What's your excuse?"

"You got shot,” he replies, shrugging. “Haven’t slept much since.”

Mickey's wincing again, looking guilty again. He glances at Ian, where his head rests on Mickey’s stomach. "You ain't the only one having that problem," he whispers, tracing Ian's eyebrow with his thumb. "A dramatic reaction. No need to worry. I'm fine."

"You got _shot_ ," Yev hisses. Mickey's nonchalance is infuriating.

"So? I'm fine."

"Stop fucking saying that. You got _shot_. Someone picked up a gun and pulled the trigger and fucking tried to kill you."

Mickey winces again. "Well, they fucked it up. Only got me in the ass."

Ian stirs, saying something indistinct as he hides his face better in Mickey's stomach.

"What's that, mumbles?" Mickey says, fingers running through Ian's hair.

"Said it wasn't only your ass." Ian talks loud and clear, but he doesn't even open his eyes. "Was eight fucking bullets on the outside of your leg, from your knee up to your ass and you wouldn't stop bleeding so it was hard as fuck to actually see the fucking bullets to get them out and you got lucky it didn't hit anything worse so stop brushing it off like it's nothing, asshole. Nearly bleed to death, passed out in my arms. You got _shot_."

"Okay, okay," Mickey whispers. "That first day it was pretty bad, but I got outta the woods after that and you, Mr. Overreaction, did not need to keep up with those all-night vigils. You need your sleep, man."

"And you need to not get fucking _shot_."

"Wasn't exactly in my plans for the day but shit happens."

Ian only growls in response.

"Should I go?" Yev asks even though the thought of leaving Mickey now that he worked up the courage to come see him leaves him queasy. "Didn't mean to wake you up, Ian."

"Didn't," Ian says, finally blinking his eyes opens. "Was pretty much wake. Just dozing."

"Oh," says Yev. "Okay." His lip trembles and he's hit with another wave of fear. Mickey came so close to dying. If that guard was a little better shot, if there wasn't a former surgeon at Three, if they couldn't stop the bleeding than Mickey wouldn't be here, denying how serious it was and bickering gently with the love of his life.

It can't happen again. Yev won't let it happen again. There is only one way Yev can think of to keep it from happening again, and that’s a long fucking shot, given the way he left Boston.

"Yevgeny," Mickey says, reaching out a hand and squeezing his shoulder. It makes it harder to hold back the tears burning hot behind his closed eyelids, but breathing’s easier. "I really am okay now. Little sore. Little tired, but okay. Healing up real nice."

Yev shakes his head, comforted by Mickey's warm hand on his shoulder, there like it was when he was twelve and terrified of Eighteen, sure that every guard and prisoner would hit him or throw him in The Shed, having panic attacks all over the place.   There like it was when he was thirteen and he broke his wrist falling out of a tree. There like it was when he was fifteen and finally figured out ratios in his homework after struggling with them for weeks.

Mickey’s right here like he's always been right here, and he's hurt but not dead. And Yev's going to keep it that way, even if he has to take drastic measures. Even if he has to do what he promised himself he would never fucking do again. Even if it’s a long fucking shot.

"Okay, Mick," Yev says, lifting his head to smile at Mickey and Ian. "Okay."

Mickey squeezes his shoulder for a finally time before going back to poke at his tablet. "Things are kinda a mess in the sections."

"Yeah," Ian mutters. "Because everyone thinks the great and glorious M is dead."

Mickey sighs. "Lip's got internet up in thirteen total sections, but the other eight are in the dark since Pop Com cut us off. Hard to get good info in there."

"He's planning on heading out with Amanda tomorrow to fix that," Ian says. "Now that you're on the road to recovery."

"You're not making me go with them, are you?" Yev says, glaring at Mickey.

"Think my days of making you go places are over with," Mickey replies, grinning. "You're a stubborn little shit."

Yev grins back.

"Lip and Amanda should be able to handle it," Ian says. "Think they can get everyone on the grid in less than a week, since it's mostly the middle sections that need help and they're all reasonably close together. You think it'll be enough? To convince everyone you're not dead? If we just send out pictures of you alive and well?"

"Don't know why it fucking matters," Mickey mutters. "Me dead or alive ain't gonna change the situation with Pop Com."

Yev and Ian share a look, heads shaking, eyes rolling. Getting Mickey to understand what he means to people across the sections is an impossible feat.

"It's a morale thing, Mick," Ian says. "People’re scared and M being alive is gonna go a long way to help with that."

Mickey sighs, thumbs at his lip. "Fine. I think we need to go on a road trip anyway, go to Four, talk to Linda. She's the only one who's actually had contact with Chicago. There's shit to figure out and I guess we can stop in some sections on the way, prove I'm not dead and shit. Maybe the not dead rumors will spread from there like the is dead rumors spread from Three."

The Pop Com stuff is only slightly less terrifying than the Mickey got shot stuff. When shit went down last week, apparently Linda, the Captain of Four, got in touch with Pop Com, explained that their presence would no longer be required or accepted in The Farmland, and since then they simply cut all communication, cut the internet. Their silence is unsettling when they could be plotting anything, violent retaliation, a full blown war.

But Yev isn’t going to let that happen. He’s already decided.

Ian sits up a little, looking thoughtful. He gives a little nod.

"I'm going," Yev says in a rush. "This time I'm fucking going with you."

"Fuck," Mickey says, but he smiling, almost proud. "Fine."

"Hey," Ian says, sitting up and pressing a kiss to Mickey's temple. "Time to change these bandages."

"You wanna see all my stitches?" Mickey says, grinning at Yev again.

And that's enough for Yev to fight this pull to stay near Mickey, to see with his own eyes that he's not dead. He scrambles out of his chair, flipping Mickey off as he exits the room. Mickey and Ian's combined laughter trails after him, making him smile.

Once he's out in the hall again, he takes a deep breath, steeling his nerves and setting off to find Lip.

He’s been thinking about it since the got on the road, Boston getting smaller in the rearview, thinking about a way to force Pop Com to change how the sections run without it getting so bloody and so bad.   It was almost an idea on their last night in Boston, when the anger finally drained away, leaving him clear headed, able to plot like Mickey’s always plotted.

Now, it’s almost a full on plan.

Lip's in a tool shed with Amanda, taking inventory of all the supplies they'll need to get eight sections hooked up to the internet they setup for The Farmland.

"Good morning, Yevgeny," Amanda says. "Did you finally go see Mickey? We told you that he is fine."

"Yeah, yeah," Yev says, embarrassed by his hesitation now that it's so obvious that Mickey isn't just going to up and die at any moment.

"Good," she says, nodding before turning back to the shelves of wire.

"So what's up?" Lip asks, typing on a tablet as he talks.

Yev takes another big breath and asks for something he never thought he'd ask for, asks for Mickey, asks for everyone in The Farmland, asks because he needs to do everything in his power to make sure this current standoff with Pop Com doesn't get violent and ends the way they need it to end.

"Need your help getting in touch with someone back in Boston," he says, talking too fast.

Lip looks up from his tablet, frowns. "Thought you were already emailing with Nika?"

He shakes his head. "Not Nika."

"Then who?”

Taking another big breath, he bites back his fury and answers. "Svetlana," he says, wincing. "Need to get in touch with my mom."

* * *

 

"You brought the baby," Lip says, begrudgingly putting out the joint on the bottom of his shoe as Yev approaches, little Ellie on his hip. She shrieks a little when she sees Lip, reaching out for his fuzzy hair like she always does when she's around Lip.

"Nope," Lip says, making a silly face at her and covering his head with his hands, protecting his hair from her grabby baby fingers. "This hair is off limits, sweet cheeks."

Ellie smiles a goofy, toothless smile.

"She kept Fi up real late last night," Yev explains. "Figured mama could use a break."

"Yeah, yeah," Lip says. "Let's go in. I'm starving."

They settle at a little table on the outside patio, Ellie in a highchair, Lip already reading through the menu. It’s probably too chilly to be sitting outside near the water, but Ellie's bundled up and after a long Boston winter, these first spring days need to be treasured. The patio’s full and the path along the sea wall across the street is crowded with people, too.

Yev likes the briny smell coming off the water.

"Where's Amanda?" he asks. These last few months it's been rare to see one without the other.

"Last minute lunch thing. Her mom made a little surprise visit to the office."

"Poor Amanda."

"Yup. So when you coming to work for me?" Lip asks, still looking at the menu. He usually opens with casual conversation before he starts bugging Yev about class and work. He really must be hungry if he's skipping the pleasantries.

"Dude, how many times do I gotta tell you?" Yev says, letting Ellie gum on his fingers. Somehow, within the first few hours wandering around in the town square when they first arrived in Boston, Lip found them, and the first few hours after that, Lip had him signing up for classes at a local college. He passed more of the entry tests then he expected to, got interested in Lip’s internet work, enrolled in the applicable classes, and readily agreed to come on as Lip’s apprentice when he’s done. "If I pass the test next week I'm all set to be your intern. Internet certified, son!"

"Well hurry the fuck up."

Yev flips Lip off and Lip smirks from behind his menu.

Grinning, Yev turns his head towards the water. A woman is staring at him from the path along the sea wall, her bright blond hair whipping around her head when the wind picks up. Beside her is a little girl with similarly pale hair. Her forearms are strapped into crutches and she leans forward on them, her posture hunched. She's tugging on the woman's shirt, obviously annoyed and ready to keep walking. A third girl appears from over the rocks on the water with a clump of seaweed in her hands, this one with darker hair like Yev’s, a curly mess that's falling out of a pony tail. She bends to show the younger girl on the crutches her seaweed prize before she notices the older one, still staring at Yev.

"Yo! Yev! Are you gonna order or what?" Lip's voice sounds very far away. Everything sounds very far away and Yev can't stop staring at the trio of girls across the street.  

He's looking at ghosts, people he forced himself to forget before his thirteenth birthday because thinking about them _hurt_. He would think about them and suddenly he couldn't even talk to Mickey, couldn't even learn about the orchard, couldn't even eat when all he could do was think about them and hurt.

He stares for a moment longer, when the middle girl with darker hair starts staring at him, too, her mouth dropping open as she raises a hand to actually point at him.

"Raisa." He chokes out the name, the word like marbles in his mouth it's been so long since he said it.

"That's not on the menu," says Lip and Yev continues to ignore him.

"Nika," he says and suddenly the couple dozen feet separating them is torture. He scrambles to his feet, knocking his chair over and startling Ellie. Hoping the fence around the patio, he doesn't even pause to make sure the street is free of cars and horses and bikes as he runs. "Nika!" he says, louder this time, more sure.

Nika doesn't say anything as he collides with her. It's so strange to be taller than her, when he spent the first twelve years of his life looking up at her. Her head barely clears his shoulders now and he wraps his arms around her.

For a painful moment she stays tense against him and he thinks maybe he got it wrong. Maybe he’s just hugging on some random stranger who only looks like his sister, whose blue eyes match Yev's own perfectly.

But then she lets out a sob, her arms coming around his back and her hands fisting in the fabric of his shirt.

"Nika," he says again.

She murmurs at him in Russian and even after all these years without hearing or speaking it, he understands. She’s in awe, she missed him so much, and she can’t believe he’s here.

"My turn," says Raisa, tugging at his arm. "My turn."

Nika lets him go and he laughs, wiping his eyes on his sleeve before bending to hug Raisa. In his mind she’s only three years old.

"You remember me?" Yev asks when Raisa steps back to beam at him.

"Of course I do!"

"No she doesn't," says Nika, latching on to his forearm like she's scared he’ll run away.

"I do too, Nika!"

"She's seen your picture, heard us talk about you. Thinks those are memories."

"Nika!" Raisa glares at their big sister before turning to Yev, holding his hand. "I remember you, Yevgeny. Do you remember me?"

"Yes," he replies. And it comes back to him in a rush, memories he forced himself to forget. He remembers following Nika around like an adoring shadow, holding Raisa's hands as she learned to walk, and pressing his fingers to Mama's belly, feeling the new baby kick.

The new baby is no longer a baby, but a little girl who is currently hiding behind Nika, peering up at Yev with narrowed, suspicious eyes.

"Sasha," Nika says, resting a hand on the little girl's head. "This is Yevgeny. You know all about Yevgeny. This is our brother. He's really here, somehow."

But Sasha remains shy. Yev stares back, amazed that she really exists. Amazed that he's really meeting her.

"There better be a damn good reason why I'm not stuffing my face with shellfish right now." Lip appears, looking wary and annoyed with Ellie blowing spit bubbles in his ear.

"Who's this?" asks Nika. "Your husband? Your child? He’s too old for you, Yevgeny."

"What?" squeaks Yev.

Lip snorts. "No. Hell no. I'm basically his uncle and the kid belongs to our friend."

Nika glares at Lip. "You're not his uncle. He's my brother and I'm not your niece, so you can't be his uncle."

Yev winces, suddenly reminded that this reunion isn’t a completely happy one.

His sisters got out and Yevgeny was left behind. They left him behind and he found a new family at Eighteen. His sisters grew up in a free city with their mother and Yev grew up a prisoner, a slave, only spared the worst of what that could mean because of Mickey. Mickey’s more a parent than the woman that left him behind, but to Nika, it seems like family means blood when that’s not been Yev’s experience.  

Suddenly things are very awkward.

"Wait," says Lip, eyes darting around from sister to sister. "Yev's your brother?"

" _Yevgeny_ ," Nika hisses. "And yes. He's our brother."

"Wow," Lip says, turning to gaze at Yev. It looks like it hurts him to smile and Yev gets it. His brother's been missing for over a decade. For a decade Mickey's been searching the sections and Lip's been trying to hack into Pop Com records, to no avail. All that work but its Yev that just stumbles upon his sisters, easy as anything.

"Yeah," Yev agrees, just as stunned.

Nika shoots Lip a final glare before turning towards Yev. "You have to come."

"Where?" Yev asks, his mind working too slowly as it struggles to process all this.

"To Mama," Nika says. "Gotta go see Mama."

* * *

 

When Lip finds out that Ian is alive and safe with Mickey at Three, he cries.  

He bursts into the apartment Yev shares with Fiona, Jimmy, and Ellie as Yev’s doing the dishes from lunch, Jimmy's crawling around on the floor with Ellie, and Fiona's finishing up some alterations she brought home from her work at a tailor.

Lip stands in the doorway, tears streaming down his face, tablet clenched to his chest. He didn't even bother to pull on a shirt before rushing over from his apartment, right across the hall.

"They found him," Lip says. "They found him."

He hugs Yev extra long, probably because he can't hug his twin right now. All Yev knows about Ian is from Lip, because Mickey just couldn’t talk about him, but Yev tries to picture it anyway, Ian red-haired and tall and gawking at how different Eighteen is than Three, Mickey unable to stop smiling. He wishes he were there to watch it, to meet Ian for real. He wants to see Lip reunite with his long lost brother instead of worrying about his own reunion with his own long lost family.

When he finds out that Ian is safe, Lip cries, but when Yev saw his own mother for the first time since he was twelve last night, his eyes stayed dry.

Svetlana cried, hugged him, murmurs endearments in Russian and marveled over how tall he got, how grown up he is, how dark his hair turned. Yev just stood there, unable to return her embrace.

He kept hearing the last words she spoke to him. _Stay quiet, Yevgeny. Do not speak_. And he followed her instructions, when Father screamed and demanded to know Svetlana's plans, when he hit Yev with his belt chanting _where. did. they. go_.

He did not speak when Father locked him away in a closet for so long, shipped him off as a prisoner. He did not speak when Mickey finally coaxed him out from underneath a cot where he was cowering in the sleeping room.

He did not speak for three months, not when Mickey and Vee built him a bedroom from their closets, found him a nightlight so it wouldn't get too dark. Not when Mickey sat him down with school work and picked an apple right off a tree for Yev to eat even through the guard on the hovercraft to Eighteen told him how against the rules that was. When he finally mustered up the courage to speak to Mickey, he couldn't even speak to anyone else for another year.

He did not speak yesterday, when Nika dragged them to a car, drove them outside the city to a massive grow house, and into a simple office where his mother rose from behind her desk, eyes wide like she was looking at an apparition.

She hugged him, her last words echoing in his head, and it was a struggle not to flinch and move away because she left him. She fled to a free city with his sisters and Yev was left behind with Father.

Eventually he found his voice and was able to give simple, one-word answers to all the questions Mama and Raisa and Nika threw at him, leaving it to Lip to elaborate on the details. Sasha just continued to watch him with wary eyes.

And it was okay, until Ellie got fussy and it was time to go home. Mama's face seemed to crumble when Yev turned to Lip and said that, said _time to go home_ , but Nika got angry. "Your home’s with us," she insisted. But that hasn't been true in a long time.

They finally let him leave, let him go back to Fiona and Jimmy, the family he found when the one he was born with left him behind, but only with the promise that he would see them soon and often.

And he's not sure how he feels about his own reunion, but he is so fucking happy for Mickey and Lip and Ian, so fucking relieved.

“He’s safe,” Lip chants when Yev hugs him. “He’s safe.”

* * *

 

On Sunday's his worlds collide.  

It's Fiona's fault, or maybe Nika's. Somehow, the old family that left him and the new family he found have all gotten together every Sunday since he saw Nika staring at him from the seawall, wind in her hair and mouth open with shock.  

Yev was certainly not given a vote on his world's colliding every Sunday.  Must've been Nika.  Or Fiona.

If he had his way, he'd spend alone time with his sisters, go to the park.  Watch Raisa and Sasha on the swings and talk about nothing serious with Nika. Maybe he'd take up Nika on her offer to give him a tour of the grow houses, so long as he could pretend Svetlana doesn't exist.

Instead he has to watch Svetlana charm his new family.  She wins over Fiona and Jimmy by spending the afternoon with Ellie on her hip, giving them a break.  She gets Amanda by gossiping and bitching about Boston's elite.  She gets Lip by cooking exotic Russian delicacies, but at least Lip seems kinda annoyed about it.  

Everyone enjoys Sunday's, except Yev, but at least his sisters are here. He focuses on getting Sasha to like him by playing any board game she wants.  Raisa is easy, happy to chat Yev’s ear off.  Nika's hard because as much as he's always adored his big sister every Sunday she tries to get him to come home, to work at the grow houses, to be part of this family when he already has one.

Svetlana is unbearable, so careful around him, and he makes sure to talk about Mickey, his real parent, loudly and often when she's in earshot.

Her devastated expression always feels like a victory and makes him a little sick.  Logically, he knows that it wasn't really her fault and she didn't mean to leave him behind, but he can't stop punishing her for it anyway. 

This Sunday is the worst Sunday because it's going to be the Last Sunday, and Yev has to tell his old family about it.

Ian’s decided to stay in Eighteen and so Lip decided to go back. Yev decided to go with him. So did Fiona and Amanda.

Telling Svetlana and his sisters proves the most difficult part of that decision.

He works up his nerve as they all sit down for dinner.  They're eating in the backyard, at Svetlana's house. It's outside the city, tucked away in a little cove on the water, hidden from the road by trees.  It's quiet out here, beautiful, but Yev would rather be at the tiny apartment he shares with Fiona and Jimmy, or in Lip's even tinier apartment that's felt particularly cramped since Amanda's started moving in, one piece of complicated computer equipment at a time, for months now.  He wants to be on his own turf, where his old family can't make him feel so guilty for choosing to stay with his new one.

"We are going to Eighteen," Amanda says easily, like its nothing, like its normal to just travel to The Farmland willingly.  Amanda doesn't quite get it.  It's a curiosity to her, an adventure, a challenge, and a necessary trip to make Lip whole, but she doesn’t quite get it even though they’ve all taken a shot at explaining.

Svetlana gets it though, and at Amanda's words she actually drops her fork with a bite of grilled fish still stuck on the end.  

"What," she says, her voice as blank as her face, and Yev remembers what that means.  Blankness on Svetlana means she's building up to fury. 

He stops eating, and so does Nika on his right and Lip on his left.

"Now that Ian has been found, we have decided to go to Eighteen.  Lip needs to see his brother and we have big plans to change things," she replies, rubbing Lip's back.

Svetlana snorts.  "Change?  Good Luck with that."

"It's gonna fucking happen," Yev snaps, quick to defend Mickey even though Svetlana doesn't even know it's his movement she's doubting.  They haven't told his old family much of anything about the revolution and Mickey's plan to take Three.  It still feels too dangerous to share, even if Svetlana seems to hate Pop Com more than some prisoners at Eighteen.  "You don't know what the fuck you're talking about."

Raisa squeaks, scandalized by the curse words, and she covers Sasha's ears.  Svetlana glares at him.  After so many Sundays of her looking at him with sad, pleading eyes, the glare’s a relief.

"I know exactly what I'm talking about," she says, chin held high and haughty.  "Better than you."

"Bullshit," Yev snaps.  

Raisa squeaks again, covers Sasha's ears again.  Sasha bats her hands away.

"Yevgeny," Sevtlana says.  A warning.  A reprimand.

"You might've ran away, but there are people back there, sticking it out.  Changing things.  It's happening."

"Who?" Svetlana says.  "Your _Mickey_?  It will not happen and when he fails he will be punished."

"He ain't gonna fail!  

“He is! You are safe here, Yevgeny. There is nothing for you there. You will stay here, where it is safe and free.”

Yev snorts. “Free, huh?”

“Yes, _free_.”

"What, you really think you ain't in on it?" Yev says, words building up in his chest so quickly that he has a hard time getting them out without sputtering.  He's like Mickey at his drunkest, in a full on ramble, but meaner, angrier, more clumsy.  "You’re free out here because other people who grow your fucking food aren’t! You support it!  Indirectly, sure, but Boston gets over half its food from The Farmland.  Over half!  This city stays alive off slave labor and has never thought to push Pop Com to change things despite the huge trading power they have.  And who helps provide the city with the other half of the food it needs?  Who has some pretty big trading power themselves and still hasn't done shit, Svetlana?"

There are Mickey's words, too.  _Those so called Free Cities?_ he'd say.  _Without them to trade for everything we produce here, the whole system falls apart.  They could demand anything from Pop Com, could demand food grown by people who choose to grow it, but they don't do shit.  Those Free-Ass Cities are to blame, too._

And so is Svetlana.  She trades with Boston, who trades with Chicago whose ruled by Pop Com who uses any possible excuse to pull people out of their lives, tearing apart families and causing so much pain, to ensure that they have a big enough labor force to grow the food to trade with Boston and other cities out east.  The whole thing is one big, ugly circle, and maybe he could forgive his mother for being part of it, maybe he could forgive her for leaving him behind, but she won't do shit to change it and is trying to keep Yev from doing his part, too.

That’s pretty fucking unforgivable.

"Say what you will about me," Svetlana says.  "But I do my best, Yevgeny.  I do my best to provide good life for my girls, even if I fail you.  I take care of what is mine, no matter who I do business with to make that happen, and as angry as you are, I am still your mother.  You are still mine to take care of and you will not go back to this horrible place.  You will stay here where it's safe."

"Like hell I will!"

"You will!" Svetlana shrieks, making everyone at the table jump and she stands so fast her chair falls back behind her.  "You will stay here.  I forbid you from going back!"

Yev stares at Svetlana, no longer calm and composed, but fierce.  For a moment she reminds him of Mickey, demanding that Yev go with Fiona to Boston and as much as Yev argued and ranted and raved, Mickey wouldn't change his mind.  In the end Yev went willingly, trusting Mickey because Mickey earned it over all the years he loved Yev, treated him like his own kid. Mickey got his way, but really it was Yev choosing to listen to him, choosing to go when Mickey asked. 

But Svetlana hasn't earned shit.

"You ain't my mother," Yev murmurs.  Hate has his lips curling, twisting his face into something ugly.  Under the table his hands fist, but he somehow manages to get to his feet in a much less dramatic fashion than Svetlana.  "You didn't raise me.  You ain't shit to me," he says.  Svetlana flinches like he hit her and he ignores just how sick that makes his stomach.  "Good fucking luck with your business, lady.  Here's hoping I never have to see you again.  I'm going home."

And he turns away, refusing to look at his sisters.  He manages to keep from crying until he gets into the Humvee parked out front.

 


	2. Chapter 2

Getting shot in the ass turns out to be a huge pain in the ass.

And it's not the pain.  He can handle the way his stitches pull and stretch with every movement, every breath.  The deep ache, down beneath the visible wounds that might be nerve damage, might be muscle, even that is bearable.

What he really fucking can't stand is the immobility, the weakness.

He’s got a cane now and he hobbles around, unable to climb a tree and help with the harvest now that fall is upon them. 

He hates the way everyone – even fucking Karen – talks quietly around him, like if they use their normal fucking voices when he's in ear shot all his wounds with start bleeding again. 

The former doc from Three who saved his life – Brittany – becomes his least favorite person on the planet. He grumbled about the decision to bring her back to Eighteen with them when Mickey finally convinced everyone that he was fucking fine to come home and he continues to grumble about her every time he sees her.

“You ain’t fine to travel,” says Brittany everyday when she comes to poke at his stitches.

“We gotta get to Four,” Mickey insists everyday when she comes to poke at his stitches.

“Not yet,” Brittany says like she’s following a script. “Good job keeping these wounds clean,” she tells Ian. And Ian beams back, the praise enough to keep him from backing Mickey up against the pushy doc who insists on keeping Mickey bed bound indefinitely.

“Look, things are getting rough out there,” Mickey says. “Getting reports back from Lip that people are pissed.”

Much to Mickey’s dismay, there appears to be a growing call for vengeance for M.  People seemed okay to keep the blood for to a minimum when they were getting beat to shit and thrown in The Shed by Pop Com guards, but now that their fake leader didn't even die, they’re all in a rage fueled tizzy. 

“Not yet,” Brittany says. “Give it another week. Maybe two.”

“Two fucking weeks,” Mickey mutters when the doc leaves. Ian crawls back into bed and Mickey settles on his chest, but even that’s not enough to soothe him. “Who does she think she is? Telling me to stay put for two fucking weeks.”

“A doc, Mick, that’s who. And you’re sure as shit gonna listen to her.”

Ian – the tyrant – even limits the number of hours Mickey’s allowed to stay on his feet and the number of hours he’s allowed to work on his tablet. Sure, the medication makes him drowsy and putting too much weight on his leg makes it throb, but his comfort is far from a priority when there is still so much to figure out with Pop Com officially out of The Farmland.

Linda pings him, which seems like a good sign at least. The Captain of Four doesn’t appear to have any plans to fill the void left by Pop Com and become the new power hungry ruler of the sections, but Mickey remains wary. Still trapped at Eighteen, he’s got no choice but to trust her when she says they've heard nothing from Pop Com, that all the Free Cities have agreed to send their trading goods directly to The Farmland instead of to Chicago in exchange for this falls harvest. 

LK: Two weeks, huh?

She pings him shortly after the doc’s most recent assessment of his ass and he didn’t think it was possible to sound amused through instant message, but Mickey swears she is amused. Maybe even smug.

MM: gonna be fine in one.

LK: Two is probably okay. I know there is a lot of confusion and fear out there. We were thinking maybe its not just you who should come to Four. Think we should open it up to everyone who wants to come and discuss our future. Anyone who can get here. I’m a little worried about taking people away from the harvest, but you have enough people in other sections to make sure that still happens like it should, right?

MM: Right…

LK: Shouldn’t just be your people and my people figuring this out. Everyone should have a voice. And hopefully two weeks will give them enough time to figure out how to get here.

MM: Guess I’ll see you in two weeks.

So maybe Mickey feels a little better about Linda holding down the fort, after that idea that really should’ve been his idea.

But the absolute worst part of getting shot in the ass, is that look on Ian's face, stricken and terrified and sometimes, when he thinks Mickey can't see him, so fucking angry its scary.  

Ian spends too much time in bed, probably because Mickey spends too much time in bed, doc's orders. When Mickey is up, Ian is up, trailing after him to the bathroom or the cafeteria or his office.  

The day after Brittany’s two weeks decree, Ian helps Mickey hobble to the orchard, but Mickey gets frustrated by his inability to help harvest and Ian's all twitchy like he's just waiting for Mickey to get shot again, so they go back inside before Mickey's ready to say goodbye to the sunshine.

Too often, Ian's nightmares wake Mickey up and then Mickey gently tries to wake Ian up, pulling him away from whatever haunts him.  Ian has more traumatic memories than most that could be causing him to shake with fear in the middle of the night, but when he wakes he always clings to Mickey, hiding his face in Mickey's neck. It's probably those shots ringing out all over again, Mickey going down.  He doesn't remember getting shot all that clearly, too in shock to really understand what that pain meant, but Ian can recount ever detail, relives it all again as he sleeps.

It is absolutely nothing like that one episode of depression Mickey witnessed back before Ian got taken – back when Ian wouldn’t speak or move, when he flinched away from Mickey’s hands and begged to be left alone – but Mickey think’s about it anyway.

Ian takes his pills and eats his meals and tries to get a decent nights sleep, but Mickey thinks about it anyway.

Still, days go by, Mickey can get around a little better and doesn't lean so heavy on his cane, but Ian stays the same.  Is this a standard reaction to watching someone you love get shot? The fear that goes along with the realization that this revolution is the real fucking deal and the possible consequences of that?  Is he just scared and angry?  Or is this depression?

Mickey can't figure out how to ask.

Mandy can though.

On the sixth day after Brittany’s two week decree, it’s Mandy bringing them breakfast on a tray instead of Yev.

“Look,” she says placing the tray on Mickey’s lap as Ian sits up, wiping the sleep from his eyes. She settles at the foot of Mickey’s bed like she belongs there, crossing her legs beneath her. “Think you need to talk to Doc B. This is heavy shit, Ian.”

Mickey braces himself, ready for Ian to snap and insist he can handle it. Instead, Ian just sighs and nods.

“I know,” he says. “Wrote her a letter. Haven’t gotten around to sending it, but writing it was the most important part, I think.”

Mandy looks surprised, too. “Wow. Yeah, that’s really good, Ian.”

Ian shrugs and grabs a blackberry off the tray.

“I’ve been talking to Lip,” Mandy says. “And writing with Doc B since we got here. It took awhile, but we set her up with a Lip Login. He’s got a videoconference feature up and running, too. So, if you’re up for it you can talk to her.”

“Talk to her?” Ian says, gaping. “Like face to face?”

“Face to face,” Mandy says, nodding.

“Holy shit that’s weird.”

“I know right? I’ve been writing to her since my mom got sick and I feel like I know her, but seeing her and actually speaking to her is gonna be so strange. You think you’re up for it?”

“After breakfast,” Ian agrees.

* * *

 

Doc B is young, just a few years older than Mickey and Ian by the look of her. Once they get the video stream up and working, they just stare for awhile at Doc B’s too young face. Mickey, Ian, and Mandy all sit pressed together against Mickey’s headboard, the tablet in Ian’s lap.

“Oh my,” says Doc B, beaming. She’s all dimples and big, trusting eyes, hair the color of straw. “There you are! Mandy is that really you? And you, Ian? And I would bet my favorite sweater that you are Mickey.”

“Hey, doc,” says Mandy. She shuffles a little, uncomfortable. “Nice to finally see you.”

“Yes, and you too my sweet Mandy. And Ian. Somehow you are both some much more beautiful than I imagined. Look at you. Oh no. I am crying, now. This is horribly unprofessional of me.”

That makes Ian grin. His eyes look a little wet, too. “That’s okay, doc. We forgive you. This is Mickey. You’ve heard all about Mickey.

“I am Bianca and it is a delight to meet you.”

“Uh, yeah. You too.” Mickey rubs his lip and blushes a little as Ian beams at him, pressing a kiss to his temple.

There is a little more small talk before Doc B finally pulls on her medical professional hat and asks Ian if there is somewhere they can talk in private. Mickey tries to get up, give them the room, ends up jostling his stiches and letting out a slew of curses.

“Hey, none of that,” Ian says, climbing over Mickey to get out of bed. “Stay put. I’ll use your office.”

He kisses Mickey quickly and then leaves, talking to Doc B on Mickey’s tablet as he goes.

“Well that went well,” says Mandy, stretching her arms above her head as she slowly follows Ian out the door. “You need anything? Like, shit I don’t know. Snacks? Pain pills? A book?”

“Thanks, Doc Mandy,” Mickey says, huffing. “But I think I can handle lying here all day without your help.”

She rolls her eyes, walks towards the door.

“Hey, Mandy,” he calls out, just before she slides the door shut behind her. She peaks around the door, eyebrow raised. “Thanks. For everything. With Ian and the doc. Just, thanks.”

“Yeah,” she says, offering a rage smile that just might be the genuine article. “You too.“

* * *

 

“Let me look.”

“No.”

“Just real quick. Come on, Mick.”

“Fuck no. You already looked twice!”

Mickey turns in a circle, trying to keep Ian away from his ass. Ian crouches down and follows him in the circle, trying to get at his ass and looking ridiculous. It’s the least sexy way Ian’s ever tried to get in his pants.

“Yo, watch it!” Mickey says as Ian finally gets his fingers in the waistband of his pants. Ian wraps a strong arm around his bare chest, preventing Mickey from wiggling away again. He sighs, giving up, and leans back into Ian’s chest for a moment, even as Ian checks Mickey’s bandages for a final time. The stitches are still in, the skin around them not so puckered and not so red. Healing, says Brittany. Finally.

“Okay,” says Ian with a small, bashful grin. He pulls Mickey’s pants back up, fastens the belt, and Mickey just watches, indulgent and still so completely gone over Ian, as usual. “We’re good. Still don’t think it will be good for you to sit in a humvee for all those hours.”

“We’re stopping at every section between here and Six. Think I’ll have plenty of time to get out and stretch.”

Ian hums his agreement and hands Mickey his cane.

“Hey,” says Mickey, getting a finger through Ian’s belt loop to keep him from opening the door and leaving. Mickey’s been mostly confined to this room for weeks, but now that he can finally leave it – and leave Eighteen, leave home – he absolutely does not want to.

The plan is to drive through the sections, talking to people, reassuring people, answering questions and making sure they know about the big meeting at Four, if they can get there. Tonight, they’ll spend the night at Ten. Tomorrow, it’ll be Six, and then straight on to Four in the morning.

This is a “M’s Not Dead Road Trip” and he doesn’t fucking know what to do with all those people who need to hear it. He doesn’t fucking know why it matters that these bullets didn’t hit him right in the chest.

“What do I say? Out there,” he whispers, feeling suddenly very small.

But Ian smiles, soft and gentle. “They just need some hope, that it’s all gonna work out. And you’re great at hope, Mick.”

The door gets flung open and Yev’s there, grinning. “Collie taught Karen and I songs to sing as we drive. Have you heard of 99 Bottles of Beer on the Wall? I fucking love road trips.”

* * *

 

By the third day of packing into the car, Yev and Karen have calmed the fuck down with their road trip furor.  They both fall asleep twenty minutes after leaving Six. Karen’s in the passengers seat with her head pressed against the window and Mandy's jacket spread over her torso like a blanket, with Mandy driving. Yev’s lying flat on the third row bench seat with his knees bent so his long ass body will fit.

"C'mere, C'mere," Ian murmurs when Mickey starts to fidget.  He can feel his heart beating in his still-healing wounds, pulsing with pain until Ian gets his leg propped up in the space between Mandy and Karen's seat, elevated and straight.  Mickey sighs when Ian gets an arm around him.

Mandy drives them along towards Four and Ian keeps talking in his ear, providing a steady commentary on _just how great Molly is, you sure can pick 'em Mick, do you think she'd want to meet Lip, never met anyone else like Lip, and what do you think we'll find at Four, Mick, you've been there right, ever meet Linda?_

Ian's jittery, excited, nervous, and Mickey is too.  Mickey gets it.  Two weeks is a long time to stay in one room, bed ridden, barely able to summon the energy to figure shit out with Linda over the messenger or walk around the section to watch everyone in harvest mode.

And Ian was right there with him. 

In those two weeks Mickey forgot how big the world is now. It’s not just his eighty-two people at Eighteen, but the whole Farmland.  It’s not just a handful of guards secretly communicating through a shitty game app. It’s everyone.

This post Pop Com world is not all about their retaliation looming or everyone thinking M's dead, but its good things, too.

People are moving now, freely between the sections.  They are people and they are free to walk to this section, to talk to each other about what they want for the future.

And they want to talk to Mickey, too.

The possibilities for this new world of theirs are exciting.  Leaving their fucking bedroom is exciting.  Introducing Ian to Molly at Six and meeting countless others, that's exciting too.  Ian's got a lot to be excited about.

But as Ian talks, Mickey's eyes meet Mandy's in the rear view mirror and its not just Mickey who’s worried that all this excitement might be something else.

* * *

 

"Holy shit."

Mandy's soft exclamation and the silence that follows wakes Mickey up.  He dozed through everyone else’s chatter. Waking up from their morning napping, Karen and Yev were happy to jabber along with Ian, but its the lack of their voices that really has him opening his eyes and very begrudgingly lifting his head from Ian's shoulder.

"Sup?" he asks, stretching the cricks out of his neck. He winces when he bends his knee, dropping his leg from the elevated position its been in for hours. "We there yet?"

He glances up, at Yev standing over him, half way out the open sunroof.  They've slowed way down, Mandy almost rolling to a stop.

"Look, Mick," Ian says, leaning forward to better stare out the windshield.

And Mickey looks, blinking rapidly as he tries to understand the giant wall of concrete, rising up before them, along what's got to be the border of Four.  It's tall, dark and looming, stretching as far as Mickey can see before curving sharply around a hillside to their right and disappearing into dense forest to their left.

"The fuck is that!" Mickey snaps.

"A wall," drawls Karen.

"Yes, thank you, blondie.  Know its a fucking wall.  Where'd it come from?"

"My guess is they built it," Mandy says, as snarky as her girlfriend.

"How the shit did they manage that?  Pop Com sign off on this shit?  And how'd they get it up so quick?  Was just here ten months ago to plan the growing for this year and there was nothing.  Some fence in some places, but that's it."

They get a little closer, slowly following the road towards a break in the wall, a gate.  Mickey gets a better look at the top of the wall, the sharp barbed wire spanning the distance between gun turrets.

"Yevgeny," Mickey says, trying to stay calm.  He can feel his heart beating in this leg again.  “Sit down.  _Now_."

For once Yev doesn't argue, falling to his seat.  Karen's closing the sunroof – bulletproof, this whole fucking vehicle is bulletproof – before Mickey can even order her to.

Four is suddenly a fucking military compound and for a moment Mickey panics, questioning every decision he made that got them here, staring up at huge guns mounted on a wall. 

Was he wrong to trust Four?  Are they gonna shoot them?  Replace Pop Com as the new rulers of The Farmland, changing nothing but the people in power?  

“Mickey,” says Yev, panicky. “Mickey, they’ve got guns. Mickey, what do we do? Mickey?”

“Hold on, Yevgeny.  Just let me think for one fucking minute.”  Mickey squeezes his eyes shut, tries to rub his growing headache out of his temples.  “Fuck.”

He takes three deep breaths and thinks.

Jasmine's here.  She pinged him late last night, when they stopped in Six to see Molly and assure the people there that M's alive and kicking, even if he needs a cane to walk these days.   _Safe and sound at Four!!!!_ she said.   _See you tomorrow, M._  

Sure, someone coulda hurt her after that, after they made sure Mickey was on his way, dragging the people he cares most about with him. But Sully pinged him this morning, demanding Mickey get his ass in gear and hurry the hell up.

He trusts Sully.  If he doesn't trust Sully, he doesn't trust anybody but Ian and that's no way to live.

"What you want to do, Cap?" murmurs Karen.

"Keep going," he says.

And he doesn't breathe again until they pull up to the gate, Sully barreling out of the little security hut all smiles and waves.

* * *

 

"So it'll be about an hour," Sully says from the very back of the humvee where he's sitting with Yev.  "Shit is wild today, with all the other sections bringing their former guards to us to keep locked up.  Plus we need to house all The Farmland people here for the meeting, and logistically, it’s kinda a shit show.  Linda got pulled into some organizational disaster, so it'll be about an hour.  Turn left," he calls up to Mandy.  She makes eye contact with Mickey in the rear view again before following Sully's instructions.  

They're well into Four's interior now, away from that fucking wall.  The road circles a lake, where people are lounging on the shore or fishing on the dock.  They all wear a strange mixture of brown and black and grey, clothes ripped apart and sewn back together in strange zigzagging patterns.  It makes it impossible to tell former prisoner from former guard. 

Even Sully's wearing black pants and a brown jacket. 

Mickey wishes he thought of that, suddenly conscious of Karen in her brown and Mandy in her black.  Yev's at least wearing dark wash blue jeans, his prize position brought back from Boston.

"Not sure where you're gonna be sleeping yet," Sully continues. 

He's talking constantly, like Ian was talking constantly.  He's excited and nervous, like Ian's excited and nervous. Nothing more. Perfectly typical to be excited and nervous at such times.  

"All the old prisoner quarters are in the basement.  They're basically jail cells, you know?  So that's where all the captured Pop Com goons are gonna be locked up.  Not like our people have used them in years.  Linda's been letting them build their own cabins since she became captain.  And yeah, they're small and most don't have kitchens or running water, but its better than a concrete cell in the basement.  But that means we haven’t quite figured out where everyone's staying, yet.  We got more people from the sections coming in than we thought."

"Cabins?" Mickey asks, blinking over his shoulder at Sully.   _Cabins._ Personal, private living spaces, not just a narrow cot in a communal room.  Mickey wishes he thought of that, too.

"Pretty cool, huh?" says Sully, grinning.

Mandy keeps driving and they see more people, working fields, preparing for the harvest or planting cold weather crops, garlic and kale. 

They get to the cabins, in neat rows with their own herb gardens, already picked clean for the season.  These aren't just pockets of small houses, but whole neighborhoods, and Mickey remembers just how big Four is, thousands of people.  Massive compared to Eighteen.

"That's the main compound building," Sully says, unnecessarily.  This is at least familiar. The big grey building is the same style as their building back home, ugly and practical. There are bars on the windows and a pad full of hovercrafts on the roof. Mickey’s been there before, flown in on a hovercraft and leaving the same way, all without seeing the rest of Four. "Pull around back."

They park with a whole other row of humvees and trucks, a couple motorcycles.  People are coming to Four anyway they can manage, and Mickey imagines that the stables are just as crowded.

"We'll just leave all your shit in the humvee," Sully says as Ian helps Mickey out.  Grimacing, he leans heavily on Ian as Ian reaches back inside for his cane.  Sully grimaces back, but thankfully offers no words of sympathy.  "So just hang out for a bit.  Gang's all around here somewhere.  Meet back here in about an hour?  Go check out the town, maybe."

And then Sully’s disappearing through a side door, leaving the five of them standing around, flabbergasted.  

"How's there a fucking town?" Karen asks, speaking for them all. “Where the fuck _are_ we?”

* * *

 

It’s more like a market than an actual town. 

None of the buildings appear to be permanent, but Mickey bets that will change now that they don't have to worry about hiding the whole operation from Pop Com. 

When he's been here in the past, this spot was a barren field next to the compound, but now it is absolutely bustling.  People talk and laugh and barter.  There’s a stall for everything it seems. A guy repairing vacuums.  A couple painting custom portraits.  A pack of kids selling lemonade.  There is food cooking along one row.  Hair dressers in another corner.  A fucking bar with at least four kinds of liquor and three kinds of beer - light, dark, red. 

It’s been years since Mickey’s seen actual beer, but Ian is shaking his head before Mickey can even consider checking it out and they move on.

They lose Yev after about five minutes, Mandy and Karen after another ten.  Mickey's moving too slow for them, unable to go any faster with his leg still healing and not used to navigating between so many people.  At his side, Ian's absolutely buzzing.  He greets everyone who makes eye contact with him, a jovial _hi there,_ and everyone replies with similar greetings and easy smiles.  

Ian keeps darting away, checking out individual stalls and reporting back as Mickey hobbles along.  

"Its all based on trade, Mick.  But look, those girls gave me some free grapes because they think I'm cute."  Mickey laughs and lets Ian pop two in his mouth.

Ian's joy is the best part about the whole fucking thing and Mickey would watch him bound around through the market indefinitely, but his leg is getting stiff.  Too much time in the humvee and now too much time on his feet.

"There's that bar," Mickey says, hopefully.  "Haven't seen beer in fifteen years. We could head back over there and sit for a minute."

Ian shakes his head.  "No way.  You're still on pain killers and you’re not drinking anymore remember?"

“Beer ain’t drinking.”

“Yeah, it is. No beer.”

Mickey pouts about it for about three minutes until Ian finds a smoothie stand, complete with a hand painter sign LAST FRUIT OF THE SEASON. Then it’s Mickey moving, quick as he can, dragging Ian along with him. 

"Shit.  Right,” says Mickey when they get to the stall and the woman there stares them down.  “We gotta give you something for smoothies, right?"

The grizzled smoothie woman nods, completely unimpressed.

Mickey digs around in his pocket.

"Are those fucking pruning sheers, Mickey?" Ian demands when Mickey emerges from his pocket with the only thing in there.

"These are more clippers then sheers.  They're tiny."

"Why the fuck would you need clippers of any size for this trip?"

"Never know when something needs pruning."

"You're such a nerd."

And Mickey's got something to say about that, because Ian spent half their road trip fucking knitting, but he's interrupted.

"Ian?"

Their heads turn as one, drawn to the sound of Ian's name spoken in a foreign voice.  Before them stands some dude, his clothes an unfortunate mix of black and brown that tells Mickey nothing about his background.  Mickey's mind goes to the worst case scenario, that this guy knows Ian's name because he’s one of _those fucking guards._ One that used Ian when he needed safety, that took everything when Ian was fighting just to survive.

Mickey puffs his chest up, takes a half step forward, putting himself between Ian and his asshole who knows his name.  

"Who the fuck's asking?" he says, with maximum toughness.  The effect might be somewhat ruined by his shaky knees and how heavy he leans on his cane to stay upright.

And then the man says the last thing Mickey thought he'd say.

"Mickey?" he asks.

Mickey blinks at him as Ian turns to stand at his side.

"We know you?" Ian asks.  He's close enough that Mickey can lean on him a little, take some weight off his leg.

"Holy shit," whispers the stranger.  He runs his hands through his mop of dark hair and thankfully doesn't get any closer.  "Ian and Mickey.  Never wanted to see you kids here.  Guess it was kinda inevitable, huh?"

"The fuck?" Mickey asks.  He glances up at Ian, but he's no longer looking so confused, just shocked, with his eyebrows raised to his hairline and his mouth hanging open a little.

"You boys alright?  You look alright." He frowns at Mickey's cane.  "Mostly.  Still together.  How'd you mange that?"

"Still?" Mickey asks, blinking some more.

"Mick," Ian murmurs, nudging him gently with his hip. "That's Mr. Scott."

Mickey frowns.  "No it's not.  Mr. Scott didn't have a beard."

"It was twenty years ago.  Maybe he grew a beard."

"Just shy of nineteen years, actually," says not-Mr. Scott.

But he could look like Mr. Scott – Mickey's favorite teacher, the first person he saw get taken when he was ten – after just shy of nineteen years as a prisoner.  The beard is misleading and he used to wear his hair cropped short, but the glasses are the same, as is the dark brown skin and the slightly rounded shoulders.

"Huh," Mickey says.  "Mr. Scott. Who'd of fucking thought it?"

* * *

 

Mr. Scott – call me Scotty – trades away a loaf of fresh baked sweet bread for a couple smoothies.  He charms grizzled smoothie woman and promises to drop off the bread himself, first thing in the morning.

The settle at a picnic table, Ian fussing excessively over Mickey's leg, and everything Mickey thinks to say is wrong. 

_Hey, Mr. Scott, I can't believe you're not dead.  Hey, Mr. Scott, my dad used to call you a faggot and it took me awhile to figure out why that scared me so much.  Hey, Mr. Scott, thanks for using the right pronouns for Lip.  Hey, Mr. Scott, I used to have nightmares about them dragging you away until I started having nightmares about them dragging Ian away instead._

Mickey just sips his smoothie, trying not to groan too obscenely as the blueberry hits his tongue.

"You been here at Four long?" Ian asks. He knows how to say the right thing.

"Over thirteen years, now.  Started at One, until they realized that I didn't know anything about fixing solar panels.  Then it was Two, where I got really good at teaching the newbies about corn.  Then Linda brought me here, when she needed someone to teach her newbies about corn."

"Wow," Ian says, totally neglecting his smoothie. "That's a lot of moving.  And it's always been like this here?  Like a real town?"

Mr. Scott shrugs.  "Linda's always been on the people's side and she was quick to fire the real bully guards, you know?"  Mr. Scott very obviously eyeballs Mickey's all black ensemble. "In the last five years, that's when things really got going.  The markets, people voting on decisions that affect them, guards doing the same exact work as prisoners.  

“Holy shit,” murmurs Ian.

Mickey still can’t find his voice. He thought he did so fucking well at Eighteen, but this is better. Four is better and Mickey can’t really get his head around it so he drinks his smoothie,

“How's—“  Mr. Scott grimaces, clears his throat.  "What happened to Lip?"

This guy hasn't seen them since they were ten, but he still cares about what happened to Lip.  His voice is shaking with how much he cares and based on his expression, he's anticipating the worst.

"He's great, Scotty," Ian says, beaming.  "Got taken, years ago, but Mickey helped him, got him out east.  To Boston.  And he flourished.  But he's back now, came back a couple weeks before everything went down at Three, with a partner.  He's the reason we've got internet."

Letting out a big breath, Mr. Scott tilts his head back and closes his eyes, almost like he's praying except no one prays anymore.

"Good," he says after a minute, voice small.  "Worried about you boys for a long time."

Ian nods, smiling softly like he understands, but Mickey doesn't get it.  They were just his students.  Just hung out in his classroom when Lip was feeling fragile.

But maybe it’s a prisoner thing.  Mr. Scott might just be a bad dream to Mickey, but his last memories before he got taken were of Ian and Mickey and Lip, eating lunch.  Maybe he watched them that day, saw three little queer kids who needed protecting.  Maybe he saw himself.  Maybe they were important to him and maybe his last decision as a person, before he became a prisoner, was to keep them safe.  Maybe he's so relieved that they managed okay, even without him there.

"But you got taken," says Mr. Scott, sad again looking at Ian.  "And you followed, Mickey. Became a guard."

"Captain, actually," Ian corrects.  He throws an arm around Mickey shoulders and grins, as if that title is something to be proud of instead of disgusted by.

"Yeah?" says Mr. Scott.  "Where?"

"Eighteen."

And even with the big beard, Mickey can see his mouth fall open. "You're M!" he says.

Mickey groans and hides his face in his hands.

"Yeah, he is." The way Ian says it, soft and proud, makes the whole thing a little more bearable.  He still steals Ian's smoothie in retaliation.  

He trying to figure out how to interrupt Ian telling an abridged version of their life story since age ten, to ask Mr. Scott more about how the hell Four managed to do all this, when Sully shows up.

“Hey,” he says, resting his hands on Mr. Scott’s shoulders. He kisses Mr. Scott’s temple and Mickey’s eyes bulge out of his head a little bit. “How’d y’all find each other?”

“They were my students,” Mr. Scott murmurs. “Back in the day. Saw me get picked up by Pop Com. Poor kids.”

“No shit,” says Sully. “Small world. Linda’s ready.”

Linda might be ready, but Mickey’s not so sure about himself. He takes Ian’s hand and gets to his feet anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So the utter horror show that is Shameless canon these days made this really hard to write, but this story will be finished! I promise! Thank you so much for sticking with me.
> 
> [Rose](http://gardenofblueroses.tumblr.com/) is the best beta in all the land.
> 
> Come say hi on [Tumblr!](http://jaxington.tumblr.com/)

**Author's Note:**

> This is going to be the final installment. And I mean it this time people! I'm hoping to do smaller chapters, posted a bit more regularly, but I only have the next one half way written so it won't be up as quick as this chapter.
> 
> [Rose](http://gardenofblueroses.tumblr.com/) is the best beta in all the land.
> 
> And you my lovely readers/commenters/kudos-givers/subscribers are also the best. 
> 
> Come say hi on [Tumblr!](http://jaxington.tumblr.com/)


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